Broken hearts, broken minds
by Crazycatscarmen
Summary: Summary: Stan can't take it anymore. No one wants him. Not even himself. So! This is a "redo" (haha) of my other suicidal Stan 'The past and the future' and honestly, they have nothing in common I just wanted to write a better sad Stan story because that one sucked. Ahem, anyway. I love you, please don't die, and feel free to hate me after reading this pure angst!
1. hehehehe

**Tw: Suicidal attempt and self-hatred. UMM. IT'S NOT FLUFFY. AT ALL. Edit: Not much really, just fixed some errors etc.  
**

* * *

The bridge he stood on was one he'd traveled over many times. At one point he would look out at the water with excitement, a grin splitting over his cheeks, dreams, and hopes dancing in his eyes.

Now he stood over the rushing water, car sitting behind him, doors unlocked and the key in the ignition. A note lay on the steering wheel. He wanted the lucky buster who came for it first to take care of it, after all. If you could see his eyes you would see dark empty pits, once full of light and energy, now drained and broken. They stared at the water longingly. It wasn't much of a longing for the water as it was for what the water promised.

The bridge itself was very safe. Made of stone and fenced with metal, it would be incredibly difficult for someone to accidentally go over, even in a car.

Although, he didn't quite intend for this to be an accident, did he? He glanced down at the paper he held in his hand.

It was a picture. In it, there were two boys standing beside a shipwrecked boat. They were identical, each one grinning like loons at the camera. The only difference was that one was missing a tooth. He stared at it a moment longer before placing it in a pocket beside his heart.

He trembled as he hefted himself onto the ledge. His muscles tensed, his body naturally trying to keep him up, keep him from falling. He rolled his shoulders, letting himself relax. Taking a deep breath he leaned forward.

The air rushed past his ears, but even so, he could hear the screams of a car brake and the slamming of a door right before he hit the water.

 _..._

The air was cold and smelled strangely of disinfectant. It reminded Stanley of a hospital. That would make sense. He'd always hated hospitals, it would make sense his life after death would be a punishment. He didn't really expect to go to heaven anyway. Although speaking of, he didn't really expect to wake up either. He blinked but closed his eyes again almost immediately. It was _bright._ Maybe he was in heaven. He kinda thought that the realm of Hades was more of a black and red color scheme if he was being honest. He couldn't comprehend why _he_ was in heaven, but maybe he was about to be judged or something.

"..ly? Stanley? Are you awake? Can you hear me?"

Stan's eyes were still shut, it was still too bright, but he frowned. That voice was awfully familiar. A realization came over him and Stan shot right up, eyes wide and filled with fear. The owner of the voice flinched back. Stan met his eyes and gaped, a look of despair painted over his features.

"Sixer! You what are you doing here?!" Stan rasped. Now that he thought about it, his throat felt like it had that one time he'd nearly drowned learning to swim. His breath picked up speed in panic. "You're not supposed to be here! You can't be dead too!" Stan exclaimed. He couldn't be dead! He was the useful twin! The world _needed_ him. Their _family_ needed Ford.

Ford choked. He was sitting in a chair beside Stanley's bed. Now that Stan took a moment to look, Ford wasn't looking so good. His eyes were rimmed with red and his nose was bright enough to pass as Ruldophs. Stan's brow furrowed in concern.

"Wow, Poindexter, you look _terrible_." Stan scowled at him. "Just because I went and killed myself off doesn't give you a pass to stop taking care of yourself, ya know." He tried to cross his arms, but his hand wouldn't move. He glanced down and stared.

He was handcuffed to a bed. Huh. Well, that was unexpected. Ford made a weird noise between a whimper and a scoff and Stan returned his gaze to Ford. He winced.

Ford's eyes were welling with tears and his entire body, head to toe was trembling. Stan winced again as Ford finally said something, the words strangled from his throat.

"So it's true?" Ford asked. Stan just cocked his head in confusion and Ford held a hand to his mouth to hold back a sob. "Y-you meant to d-do this?" Ford really did sob, his entire body jerking forward with the force of it. Stan's eyes widened and he automatically leaned forward to comfort but was stopped once more by the cuffs.

"What do you mean it's true? Ford, I'm really confused..." Stan stated. He leaned back onto the bed slowly, his face screwed up in question. "Why are you crying? Ford, you're scaring me."

Ford choked again and pointed at the cuff. "Stanley, you're on suicide watch!" Tears fell freely down Ford's face. Stan blinked.

Oh. So maybe he wasn't dead. Stan sighed in defeat.

"Crap. It didn't work, did it?" Stan mumbled at his feet, eyes closed. "I can't even die right." Another noise from his left and Stan's turned to Ford with an apology written all over his face.

"Crap, I'm sorry Ford, I tried, I really did! I'm sorry, I never meant to come back." Stan had another realization and he swore again. "And now you guys have a hospital bill, I'm sorry, I didn't mean for this to happen-" Stan cut off when Ford's sobbing only got worse. Stan cocked a brow.

"Um...Ford?" He asked confusedly. Ford was hyperventilating and trying to breathe, but ultimately failing. Everything from his trembling to his twisted facial features expressed 'pain.' Stan felt guilt rush through his chest. He'd meant to make sure Ford _wasn't_ in pain anymore, not make it worse!

He shouldn't have survived.

Stan swallowed hard, his throat was closing off, his next words coming in whispers. "Ford? C'mon...I know I didn't do it right this time but I'm sure if I could get a knife or something..."

Ford stop breathing altogether and was standing up, right in Stan's face before Stan could blink. Ford snarled at him, two polydactyl hands on each of Stan's wrists.

"NO!" He screamed. His tears fell unto Stan's chest and Stan stared up at him, fear swimming in his previously empty eyes. Ford panted, growling at him.

"WhatEVER made you think I wanted you DEAD?!" Ford seethed. Stan shrunk farther into the bed. Ford saw him flinching away in fear and immediately let go. Ford's face twisted from anger back into sorrow and Ford fell to his knees, head resting beside Stan's arm. He sobbed again, the sound harsh and broken.

"Why did you try to leave me...?" Ford broke down and Stan stared uncomprehendingly.

This. This didn't make sense. No one wanted Stan around. Not even Ford. Maybe Ford didn't think Stan saw it, but it was obvious really.

Ford wanted Stan gone. For _weeks_ now, Stan could sense it. He would try and give Ford space, thinking maybe it would make Ford feel better, but Stan didn't have anyone else. Neither did Ford, but Ford never did really care about social interaction. Anyway, it was hard to avoid hanging out with someone you lived with. They shared _everything_. Stan wasn't trying to encroach on Ford's space! He really wasn't. Stan was flexible, he took walks by himself and stopped asking for help so much too. It wasn't that he really needed help with his homework anyway, he just liked any excuse to talk to his brother.

Stan shook his head. This Ford and the one from the other day were contradicting one another and he really didn't get it.

A few days before, Ford had been about to present his project to a board of committee important something blah blah people to take Ford away to some college. Later, the project didn't work and evidence turned up that Crampelter, the evil twisted boy he was, had sabotaged it. Ford had been furious. Unfortunately, the evidence had only turned up _after_ West Coast tech. had scratched Ford off their list.

Ford had sulked for days. Filbrick had returned to hating them both. Stan tried to keep up Ford's spirits, making up stories and telling Ford that he would get into some other college, that he was still the smartest bloke out there, but to no avail. Ford would snap at him, his disdain for Stan's company becoming more and more obvious until Stan just...couldn't take it anymore.

So he'd gone to the bridge. He hadn't been scared. It was a relief really. If no one wanted him, what was the point of staying? He didn't even want himself.

Yet, despite all of this, here Ford was, angry and upset and bawling because he'd tried to die. It just didn't add up. He wanted to ask why Ford was crying again but honestly, Stan wasn't sure if Ford was capable of talking, so instead, he carefully lifted his hand and combed it slowly through Ford's hair. Ford sobbed harder for a moment and leaned into the touch.

Stan let the rhythmic movements of his hand soothe the both of them until he eventually fell into a thoughtless trance, only punctured by Ford's sniffing and sobs, which slowly decreased as the hours ticked by.

Eventually, Stan glanced down at Ford. His arms were crossed beneath his head, his chest rising up and down in a steady beat. Stan sighed fondly. Ford had fallen asleep.

Stan was still confused, but as he continued to comb his finger's through Ford's hair Stan felt something settle inside of him. His eyes flickered to Ford's hand. He was clutching tightly onto something. It looked like a piece of paper. Stan stopped finger-combing Ford's hair long enough to pull the paper clenched in Ford's hand out and look at it.

It was a picture. Their picture. Stan saw both Ford and him, barely seven years old, both happy. Both grinning like nothing in the world mattered but that moment. Stan's chapped lips twitched upward.

Maybe...maybe not _everyone_ hated him after all.

* * *

 **Stan: What the actual FRELL Carmen.**

 **Me *sheepish*: Heh, yeah...**

 **Uhhh, *hands you tissues and this delicious cheesecake I was eating while I wrote this* Hehe, it's my mom's birthday. For those who don't know, cheesecake is a _much_ better birthday cake than just...cake. Anyway, I hope you aren't dead and I love you and please don't hurt yourself because I would cry harder than I cried while I wrote this.**

 **Did that make sense? I don't know anymore, I hope you enjoyed, and please review! Please, tell me how many tears I've caused, I deserve to be ridden with guilt over causing you all suffering. (And If you review, I'm thinking about adding a fluffy chapter... ;)**


	2. Lol

**Okay, I love you guys, thank you for reviewing! It FILLS ME WITH INSPIRATION HONESTLY, LET'S WRITE SOME FLUFF!  
**

 ***Kind of an edit* (I would like to formally apologize to both my amazing readers, Brenne and Kagome11...)**

* * *

Ford eventually woke up. For a brief moment, as his mind stirred awake, he thought he was back at home at his desk. Falling asleep at his desk was a common enough occurrence.

As his eyes blinked open, however, Ford very quickly caught on to where he was.

The hospital. Right. If he hadn't been completely and utterly drained of energy he might have started crying again.

How had he not seen it coming? Noticed the signs?

How long had Stanley been suicidal?

Ford didn't know and the knowledge that he didn't know nagged at him, eating at his mind and filling his stomach with a feeling of uneasiness, adding itself to the ball of guilt and pain that sat there. It made him want to puke. Stanley had been in pain, had been stewing in this-this _depression_ long enough to actually...end it all.

He couldn't comprehend it. Stanley was the bright one. He was the _happy_ one. He was always happy! Even as thing deteriorated, even as Ford...even as Ford pushed him away.

He didn't want to admit it, but he'd been feeling suffocated the last year or so. He didn't think Stan had noticed if he was being honest. He thought he'd hidden it better than this. Stan certainly hadn't been acting like he noticed! He was still excitable and cracking jokes and making Ford go to bed and talking to Ford about nothing and everything and he still...still laughed and...and smiled...

Ford's brow furrowed as he thought harder. Stanley...hadn't been around as much, had he? Ford couldn't remember hearing the familiar beat of the paddle ball as he worked or the incessant background chatter when his brother went off about one thing or another as of late.

 _Hey, I'm goin' for a walk, see ya, Ford._

 _I'm gonna go work on the car, she needs a tune-up._

 _Ford? There's this question...you know what? Nevermind, I got it._

Ford felt his heart cracking as if Hephaestus himself had taken a hammer to it. Had Stan really noticed? He had always been better at reading people than Ford was, especially Ford himself. It wasn't implausible to think that Stan had picked up on some of his...emotion. Although, that didn't explain why he thought Ford hated him! Now _that_ was ridiculous. He could never hate Stanley! Stanley was his best friend {his only friend} he was his twin! Ford couldn't hate Stan if he tried!

But maybe...maybe Stan didn't see it that way. Ford sniffed and finally lifted his head to look at his brother.

Stan was awake. He still looked terrible. Had Ford not been in the depths of misery and guilt when Stan first woke up, he might have laughed when he'd said that Ford looked awful, seeing as how Stan looked {so, so much} worse. His face was black and blue with bruises and even now, his eyes looked...wrong. Ford didn't understand that. Stan's eyes were bright and filled with hectic energy. They were kind and warm.

These eyes were dark. Like someone had drawn a curtain over his brother's soul. It was confusing and it _hurt_ to see Stan so subdued.

Despite the lost look in his eyes, Stan smiled down at him. "Hey Poindexter!"

Ford winced. He still sounded like Stan. Everything was contradicting itself and it hurt to try and understand it. Ford stared at him in concern.

"Stanley?"

He nodded and Ford became aware of the feeling of fingers pulling at his hair. Ford's lip trembled. Even now, Stan was trying to comfort him. Did Stan even realize the impact of his words earlier? The conversation was coming back to him and Ford bit his lip to keep it from moving.

Stan sincerely meant to leave. He thought Ford wanted him dead.

"Ford? Are you okay? You look tired still. You should go back to sleep." Stan's voice was filled with the oh so familiar concern Ford was used to. It was the same tone Stan used when Ford woke up way before he should have.

The words were like another laceration on his broken heart. If Stan thought Ford hated him, why did Stan still care? The guilt twisted Ford's stomach and he clenched his jaw, as if in pain. Ford forced out one heavy breath and Stan's hand fell to the bed as he sat up and held Stan's gaze.

Ford needed answers. Nothing made sense.

"Why Stanley?" Ford asked simply. His face was a painted portrait of every emotion under the sun, joy that his brother survived, anger at himself, guilt at not knowing, not realizing sooner. Confusion. Pain. Despite this, Stan just blinked at him.

"Why what?" Stan asked. Ford couldn't believe it. Stan was giving him a look like a confused puppy. Ford gasped in another deep breath, trying to keep things from escalating like they had before.

"Why did you try to kill yourself?"

There, he said it. Ford couldn't hold Stan's innocent gaze anymore and he looked away.

Stan was silent for a moment. Ford held his breath as he awaited an answer.

"What was the point of staying?"

Ford's body froze in shock at the simple and direct answer. He turned back towards him and Stan just shrugged at him before continuing.

"I had no reason to stay." He stated. Despite his hoarse voice, the tone of the words was clearly emotionless. Stan really couldn't have cared less about his own life. Ford gawked at him.

"What do you mean, you had no reason to stay?! What about me? About our dreams? What about _you_ , Stanley?!" Ford stood up from the chair, ignore his back as it popped and groaned at him. He really shouldn't have been sitting like that.

"Aren't _you_ worth staying for?! You have an entire life ahead of you! You have-" Ford would have gone on but Stan interrupted him.

"What's the _point?"_ He repeated.

"What's the point!?" Ford exclaimed. He threw his hands up in the air. "The point! The point is-is..." His hands fell to his side as his mind drew a blank.

Stan took the pause as an opportunity to speak.

"Life isn't worth living if nobody cares, Ford. Anyway, it's not like I had much of a life to look forward too. I know what that principal said about my future Ford. You don't have to pretend like it isn't true."

That left Ford gaping like a fish. Stan's face fell, but he only looked tired, as if this conversation hadn't gotten to the point fast enough and he was getting bored. Stan sighed and slipped farther into the bed.

"I know you don't really care. I don't blame you though." Stan gave him an understanding glance, " I don't care for me either."

He was moving before his mind could comprehend the movement. One moment he was standing uselessly by the bed, the next he was half on the bed, arms wrapped around Stan as tightly as he dared to hold him, considering his broken ribs and all. Ford closed his eyes as he felt Stan's hand in his hair again.

"I _do_ care, Ley," Ford mumbled. He felt Stan's breath hitch.

"If you say so, Sixer."

* * *

 **Not Stancest (gross). Also, not fluff. Oops. **

**Stan: Gosh, it's not that hard! Just make it...fluffy!**

 **Ford: I think you've misled your readers once more.**

 **Me: Yeah...sorry guys. Love you though! MWMHAHAHA. Idk too lazy to proofread so this is what you get. Don't hate me...**

 **(...they were both expecting fluff. Although, I think that one guest is gonna be really happy...)**


End file.
